“The traveler stands at the edge of nowhere, where calibrated clocks tick off beat rhythms and shadows neither stretch nor compress.
In a stipple of silenced stars whispered truths sulk, mortally untouched, waiting to breathe. Humanity is the impression barely left upon untouched grains floating timelessly.
Count ©hnest realologie.'

Conceive the ache of forgotten symphonies — how artifacts of thought fade, how the silence envelopes all, as tales become fictions untold.

Into the Spiral Entry to the Void Echoes